


Sam's Clothes

by senttothebrink



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dry Humping, Human!Castiel - Freeform, M/M, Sex, Smut, clothed!kink, possessive!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:08:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/senttothebrink/pseuds/senttothebrink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anonymous Tumblr prompt: Cas in Sam’s clothing, preferably with him being totally oblivious to what it does to Sam. </p><p>Castiel is human and living at the bunker. It's been a month or so from the trials: Sam is doing better, everyone is doing fine for once, but for some strange reason Castiel's attitude toward Sam has changed. And not in a good way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sam's Clothes

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: (Minor deviance after season 9 beginning)

Castiel may wear his own pants, but he, for some reason or another has taken a liking to every shirt that Sam owns. 

Sam pretends not to notice how he feels at first when he notices Castiel is in a sweater of his. It hangs on his skinnier, lean frame, sometimes exposes a hint of pale shoulder dusted with impossibly light freckles leading, probably, down his back, arms, places Sam has never thought about before in regards to a guy. 

 

 _Discomfort level: tolerable._

So, Sam makes a suggestion one night while Castiel invades his personal space for the fifth time this week.

"Cas, we could just buy you your own shirts."

"New clothes are itchy. These do not feel like that. They’re soft. I like that quality."

Sam sighs because Castiel isn’t even looking at him anymore. He’s rifling through Sam’s drawers to find his favorite dark blue shirt. The hunter runs a hand over his face from the sheer amount of _‘not getting it’_ leaving him speechless until Castiel has absconded with Sam’s clothing. 

The next thing Sam does to alleviate his discomfort- that doesn’t quite feel like discomfort- is to lay some ground rules. He catches Castiel in the main room of the bunker reading a book that- is that the one Sam suggested? And is that Sam’s flannel night shirt? His pre-planned, bulleted speech goes right out the window.

"Dude, it’s like 70 degrees in here."

Castiel dog ears the page and gives Sam his undivided, somewhat intrusive, attention. It always feels that way with him. He’s never looking _at_ Sam, but through him and he can see the way Sam’s mouth has gone suddenly dry and the fidgeting that Sam thinks is a million times more annoying now then ever before-

"We’ve gone over this. My body, for some reason or another, is unable to keep up a stable core temperature through movement alone."

_Depends on the movement-_

"All right, do you think that maybe when you wear my stuff, you can wash it? I don’t really have the time to do three loads of laundry every week."

Castiel flicks his eyes up and down in a way that makes Sam want to cover himself fast. He then leans back in his chair with a look of utmost seriousness,

"Because cat videos are much more important."

"What?"

"Cat videos. Or the sports videos you spent six hours watching. Or the day before that when you were on Pinterest for seven hours. Or the day before that when you were looking to download tetris for four hours."

Sam’s brow pinches and he;s suddenly very, very aware of how put on the spot he is. He raises his hand accusingly,

"Were you looking at my internet history?"

"I was figuring out your computer."

"Without my permission?"

"With Dean’s permission, actually. I had to do research of my own and unfortunately what I hoped to learn could not be found in these books."

"Cas, you can’t just go into someone else’s private things on the grounds that someone else gave you permission- I have private things on there, things that-"

"I did not share any of it with Dean, I can assure you-"

Sam crosses his arms,  
"What? What didn't you share?"

"Nothing of import. A few musings you wrote though the more I read the more I was aware that I happened upon your diary-"

"Journal. Cas, it’s a journal-" 

"It was well written."

Because that's supposed to make Sam feel 100% OK with this. He's literally about to really freak the hell out but he breathes in a few times, closes his eyes, counts to ten, just breathe, _he’s not used to being human-_ “Don’t. Go through. My things. Please. That’s- that's something that you should never, ever do.”

"Does that also mean implying things that aren’t true?"

"Huh?"

"You implied when you came in here that you didn’t have time to do laundry but judging by your computer history, time isn’t exactly the problem since you spent an inordinate amount pursuing meaningless ventures-"

"That doesn’t mean that I’m not busy-"

"What does it mean then?"

Even though Sam isn’t particularly an expert on Castiel’s facial expressions, he’d know exactly what that slight tilt to his mouth means any day and right now Sam is so beyond done that he can’t make words. 

"You know- You- You can’t-"

"Two hours per load, give or take, that’s six hours total. Now, that may cut in to your time on Pinterest-"

Sam puts his tongue in cheek, feels an angry flush across his face, narrows his eyes at the collected man before him. 

_You little shit._

"Know what? Forget it."

 

_Discomfort level: building and slightly caustic._

Sam has lost control of everything, right down to his clothes. The ones he wants to wear are on Castiel and Castiel is a jerk and Sam doesn't want to be around him because his mind wanders to places beneath the shirt. So Sam finds comfort in leaving every so often, only telling Dean, and walking for a while. He goes anywhere he can be distracted: book stores, mainly, the mall which is way out of his way, little shopping strips where the mannequins had unbearably blue eyes leering at him from clothing store windows. After staring at particularly familiar dummy for what seemed like hours, he ended up losing himself in the back of an antique shop. Their main collection? Angelic figurines and plaid shirts.

When did clothes become so complicated? Why did everything need to be a complication with Castiel? All the picky, stubborn behavior only ever directed at Sam made the hunter think that he said something to piss him off. It's not like he meant to, but what could he have done? Did he imply Castiel wasn't pulling his weight? Sure, he goes out on a hunt every once and a while, cleans a dish or two, but that doesn't mean he’s entitled to never washing his clothes- _Sam's clothes_ \- Sam’s clothes which are partially Castiel's clothes?

The hunter doesn't know anymore. Heaven has literally taken everything from him including the shirt off his back. He’s not sure if that makes him want to give up or set something on fire. 

Then he looks at Castiel in something of his; loose, half untucked shirts that really, _really_ make Sam wonder why he's even upset. Then he has to slap himself and stand in front of an open freezer for half an hour, at least. Shirts like that look the best on Castiel. Especially when he’s walking around in nothing _but_ Sam’s loose shirts plus boxers, most days, because pants are apparently too much of a hassle. It is the bane of his existence. 

Whatever. It’s not like Sam’s self control has never been tested. And it’s not like he can’t handle Dean’s constant amusement and little comments when Castiel roams by in something of Sam’s for the umpteenth time. 

"So. When are you two gonna make it official?"

"He’s stealing my shirts, this isn't a couple thing, I don’t think he even knows that it is-"

"If he did know, would it be a couple thing?"

"It’s not a couple thing now-!"

Dean raises one brow. 

"Bite me, Dean."

"Sure, sure, right after Cas-"

"It’s not like that."

So, after not getting help from Dean (and doing more laundry than Sam has ever remembered doing at any one point), he’s resigns himself to a life of avoiding Castiel who is the most sarcastic thing on two legs. Sam used to be the one dishing sass and having the tables turned on him is aggravating to no end. He sees Castiel now and his heart hammers with anger, desperate need to wipe away those small ticks that lets Sam know that Castiel knows he’s being a complete dick. He sees Castiel and all he thinks about is the way his clothes look on him and how some asshole he’s fought for the innocence of since the moment they met has somehow permeated through every facet of his life in the most irritating ways possible. Why does he bother to ask Sam anything if he’s just going to argue, calmly too, which Sam is sure Castiel does just to fluster him further. _You’re in my life, in my clothes, I've had it-_

"Why don’t you just eat cereal?" Sam suggests one morning while Castiel regards a cabinet full of generic brand boxes. But why he did? Who the fuck knows. He’s an idiot if he thought that Castiel wouldn't be so goddamned stubborn over such a small decision. Castiel shuts the door and leans back on the white counter, his hands braced on either side.

"Contrary to popular belief, cereal is not the most healthy and rewarding type of breakfast." 

Sam shuts his eyes, bites the inside of his cheek. He absentmindedly fixes his tie, runs a hand down his suit coat to make sure all the buttons match, and mentally prepares himself before turning to meet Castiel’s gaze- Oh, and look, he’s in Sam’s red plaid shirt. 

"Ok. Since when do you care about that? It’s just one bowl-"

"Are you aware of how many grams of sugar are in one bowl of cereal?"

"No, Cas, but I’m pretty sure you’re going to tell me."

"18 grams in Honey Nut Cheerios. Do you want me to get diabetes?"

"You won’t get diabetes from one bowl-

"You’ve suggested cereal for the past three days. I’m starting to think you don’t care about my well being."

"All right then, have a banana-"

"Don’t like the texture-"

"Then I don’t know what to tell you, Cas, we’re not exactly stocked in breakfast foods. We have fruit or cereal-"

Dean comes in like a whirl wind, tidy and dressed up, completely, purposefully, ignorant to Sam’s irritation. He rummages around in the fridge, recedes with some kind of bar in one hand, an apple in the other which he tosses to Castiel,

"All right, let’s go, we’re gonna be late. And no fighting you two, we have to make a good impression."

Sam almost has to slap himself silly because Castiel’s eating the fucking apple and _what the hell was wrong with bananas?_ Castiel’s had them before and liked it before. Everything Sam has suggested is never good enough or right or _you clearly don’t care about me, Sam._ He thought this kind of arguing was just Castiel settling into the human condition but more and more he finds himself unable to figure out where this obstinance is coming from.

Castiel bites into the apple, never breaks eye contact with Sam while doing so with one brow arched, and turns to follow Dean.

 _What the fuck is going on?_ Why is this happening, _why the hell is this happening?_ Sam follows them out of the bunker and glares at the back of Castiel’s head wishing he could just smack him and thinks about the feel of his hair, soft, dark brown strands-, _Wait, whoa-_ He thinks Castiel probably smells like him and wow- _Where did that even come from?_

While they wait for Dean to unlock the doors, Sam gives his attention to Castiel's shirt. Something makes him pause for a minute, something about his shirt on Castiel. It fits him, looks smaller- ...

"Cas, did you shrink my shirt?"

Dean stares at the two of them over the hood of the Impala, but Sam ignores him and the shit eating grin he knows is waiting for him. Castiel regards the shirt like he’s never seen it before as if to communicate, _hey, when did this get here?_ but Sam knows when it got there because he’s been missing it for three days. Castiel shrugs,

"I found it like this. In the dryer." 

"Because you put it there. Because you wanted it to fit you."

"There was a stain on it and I washed it. If it shrank, it was by accident."

"You would have had to wash it twice, Cas-"

"Listen, he shrank it, it’s a done deal, now how about we move on and stage an intervention later?"

"Dean, that was one of my favorites-"

"We’ll get you another one-"

"You can’t just find that shirt anywhere- They don’t grow on trees-"

"That depends on your definition of the word shirt," Castiel chimes in. 

Sam inhales deeply, multiple times, and cannot stop himself from glaring at Castiel who isn’t even remorseful over his thefts. What eventually breaks his concentration is Dean clearing his throat aggressively,

"I really hate to ruin all of this sexual tension, but we need to get going now. We only have a small window of opportunity and Cas needs to fake a heart attack-"

The younger hunter leans against the Impala’s frame while he runs a down down his face. It’s like a never ending psychotic merry-go-round with all of this, whatever all of this even is-

"Fine. Fine, keep the shirt. It’s not going to fit me anyway."

Sam gets in the car and pretends to not hear the muttered _I didn’t plan on giving it back_. He lets his head fall against the head rest without so much as saying another word to either of them. 

 

_Discomfort level: extreme_

After that, he makes sure to horde his favorite clothes (which Castiel finds anyway). It becomes such a routine thing that the first time in forever when Sam wakes up and the clothes are picked off the floor and there’s nothing in the basket, he is genuinely concerned. 

He wanders down the hallway in a gray shirt (the only one he’s been able to keep safe) along with black sweats (stolen once only to be returned without pockets. Sam has yet to understand why but doesn't ask Castiel. He probably never will). The floor is ice cold on his feet. Dean is somewhere making noise in one of the room down the hall accompanied by Kevin complaining about a book falling apart at the spine. Sam, for a brief second, relates wholeheartedly. 

As he approaches their laundry room, he hears someone clanging around, shuffling clothes, and opening caps. Inside is Castiel measuring out detergent wearing, of course, Sam’s black shirt and his…

"Cas?"

The other man turns toward Sam, detergent in one hand and dryer sheet in the other. His hair is mussed, deep blue eyes strangely entranced by the task at hand. A five o’clock shadow makes stubble on tanned skin stopping just above the collar of his- of _Sam’s_ shirt.

"Hello, Sam."

"Are you… I mean… Cas, are those my-?"

"Your boxers? Yes. I ran out." They’re loose, like everything of Sam’s on Castiel, but he can make out the shape of him through the dark gray fabric. Sam looks everywhere but to his friend, tries to do something with his arms, cross them, keep them at his side- Sam isn’t sure how to address the fluttering in his chest but he knows movement makes it worse.

"Huh. Well that explains why you’re doing laundry."

"I wasn't planning on it. Dean said I couldn't just throw in five pairs of boxers. I needed to make a load first. Your stuff was just lying around."

"You say that like it’s my fault."

"They’re your clothes."

"But you’re wearing them. You’ve been wearing them for a month now-"

"My responsibility to your clothes ends when I leave them in your room."

Sam is so riddled with the need- the need to do what, exactly? _You can’t kick him out of the bunker, you can’t tell him off he’ll just turn it on you somehow-_ Castiel continues going about his business like he’s won, like he’ll always win, damn it, and Sam is positive that he’s burning up. Now. Right now while watching Castiel bend over in his shirt, his boxers- Sam doesn’t want to think about the metaphor here- but something is so enticing about it all he can hardly concentrate and tries not to draw attention to his literally growing problem. He stands halfway behind the side of the already running dryer.

"Yeah, well, you could at least put them in the basket."

Standing here like an awkward jackass isn’t doing him any favors but he pretends to be interested in staying (because he is interested in the small space that smells like warm linen and running his hands along the cabinet above the dryer like he might fix that loose screw). God, what the hell is wrong with him?

"Actually, I have been thinking and I've thought of a way to way to help."

"Are you actually going to do it?" Sam’s voice cracks at the end, "The laundry, I mean."

Castiel makes a face suggesting that the title ‘Man of Letters’ was given to the wrong person. He reaches the basket behind him and draws a heap of clothes into his arms and promptly throws them in the wash.

"No. I’m going to take your advice and find my own shirts."

Sam is disappointed- No. Relieved. Disappointed. _Disappointed? Christ-_

"I believe it will be better this way. I will not be subjected to the responsibility of washing clothes and you will not have to do so much."

"So, what? You suddenly feel guilty?"

"I…" Castiel straightens out, stares at Sam with the most intense look, and it takes a while to realize what this is until Castiel seems unsure of himself, "I… thought it… it might be nice. A good thing to do. For you," and then he exhales decidedly put off, "Less laundry, more time for you to watch cat videos-"

"Gee. Thanks."

"You sound disappointed."

"I’m not. Why would I be? I get to have my clothes back. And not just the ones that I don’t want."

Castiel’s face drops. 

"Yes. Yes, you do. I’m sorry if it has been inconvenient for you."

No. What the hell is this? This doesn’t make sense. Castiel doesn’t make sense at all to Sam and Sam isn’t even turned off by that. He runs a hand through his hair like that motion alone will smooth out this bumble fuck of a conversation.

"Cas, wait, what are you doing?"

"Laundry?"

"No, I mean, you stole my clothes, refused to help wash them, then you argue with me and split hairs over tiny details all month about food and clothing and what I do on the internet, you've argued with me about how to hunt and now you’re-"

"I’m-"

"What Cas? What are you trying to accomplish because if it’s to get under my skin, congratulations, you’re already living there-"

"I'm playing-"

"Some kind of game? You win, Cas, all right? You win, I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry-"

"-hard to get, Sam. Or at least I was," the ex-angel adds in a small voice. Sam narrows his eyes, tilts his head to the side as though he misheard, and grips the dryer for support. 

"What?"

"That’s why I have been so…difficult this past month."

"Wait. Are you doing that thing where you think you’re using the right term but you’re actually not?"

Castiel hangs his head, cheeks reddening by the second,

"I can assure you I am well aware of what the term means."

"…Is… is that what you used my computer for? You were researching about crushes?" Sam almost laughs, "Who were you taking advice from? Twelve year olds?"

"...Perhaps I should have been more thorough in my research..."

"So the arguing and the clothes-" He stops when Castiel raises his head in confusion,

"What? The clothes were not part of this."

"Cas, that isn’t how you-" Sam holds his face in his hands and squeezes his eyes shut, "So that was all you this entire month?!"

"I'm not sure I understand what you're asking."

Sam has to look everywhere but Castiel. He runs his tongue along his lower lip out of irritation,

"You have been driving me insane, Cas, I can’t even begin to tell you how much I have tried not to be around you because you kept- you kept fighting over every little thing and being right most times and just liking what I like and being naive about the littlest things like you always are and then you turn into a sarcastic asshole then- _then you wear my clothes-_ “

The look on his face is dark, flushed, and a rather large vein raises on his neck. He’s going to explode when Castiel crosses his arms with a bit of a smirk to his lips,

"Really? That’s what does you in?"

One minute he’s three feet away from Castiel, the next he has Castiel’s face between hands and he’s bruising with his kisses, channeling all of his aggravation into one point of contact. He’s pressed the angel against the washer, pinned him with his hips, grinding impatiently because he wants to feel Castiel against him, firm, hot, _hard_. Castiel comes alive under his touch and responds by coiling his arms around Sam’s neck, tangling his fingers in chestnut hair twisting and pulling and Sam moans- _he fucking moans_ \- long and like it pains him. 

How long has it been since someone who knew Sam touched him like this? Someone who knew and still touched him like he _meant_ something?Castiel knows everything, knows all there is, has seen Sam's soul ruined and incomplete, and he's still there, still gripping him like his existence has meaning. Sam’s hands fly to Castiel’s sides as he releases Castiel’s lips. He rests his forehead on his, and ruts slower, harder, dragging himself up Castiel’s heated thigh. Castiel pushes against Sam’s steady grind in response, works himself against the taller man. Sam’s hands are like brands under his shirt that mark and scratch the skin there. Their breath is harsh together growing longer and steadier; Castiel whimpers intermittently; Sam groans.

"I want this, Cas. I want this… a lot. But if you-"

"Sam," Castiel’s voice is choked, "Yes." He grabs Sam’s hand, carefully guides it over until it’s covering Castiel's dick. It pulses, lengthening, under his palm. The taller hunter’s breath hitches along with Castiel and for the first time since grabbing Castiel’s face, they look each other in the eye; Sam’s half lidded hazel stares into Castiel’s ocean blues. 

Without glancing away, Castiel feels his large warm hand rub down his member a few times, fingers sweeping over the outline of the tip, skimming lightly up, up, up to Castiel’s quivering stomach. He caresses with the back of his fingers like Castiel is precious, like the angel has always and will always be fucking precious, and slots himself between Castiel’s legs more firmly than before. He looms over Castiel. Shadows are supposed to be cold, but not Sam’s: it’s inviting, enveloping, comforting, so many things that Castiel doesn’t mind losing himself in. 

The ex-angel holds his breath, eye brows furrowed in concentration at the overwhelming feeling in his body as Sam grinds into him again slowly then faster. He kisses Castiel, nips along his jaw, down his neck, then sucks bites up to his ear lobe. Shivers branch down Castiel’s spine. He finds himself pushing back into Sam’s thigh a little more frantically, the friction driving him wild, making him bite down into Sam’s broad shoulder. He clings to the taller man as though he might just sprout wings and fly off. He doesn’t register much of anything, not sound or smell or sight just _touch_ , fabric catching on fabric, as Sam goes rigid under him, muscles tight like his own. 

That cock pressed to him pulsing heat and wet and warm suddenly leaves Castiel incoherent, thighs locked, hips stuttering as he spurts in his borrowed clothes. He scrambles with need, clutches the fabric of Sam’s shirt so fiercely that Sam thinks he may have ripped into it. Those little panting gasps that Castiel and Sam make in relief are too much all at once and Sam feels like a star collapsing under it’s own weight with fire in his veins and all of Castiel, all that he was and still is, engulfing him. Their frantic movements are replaced by unhurried kisses, Sam stroking Castiel’s sides, his pink lips, his jaw as they ride it out together. He smells their heady sweat intermingled on their clothes, the air shot through by the whirring dryer and clean cotton scent. The taller man heaves out a contented sigh, glances down at the evidently darker spot on his- _Castiel’s_ \- boxers and smiles.

"Guess you’re keeping those."

"I don’t have to. I’ll- I’ll wash them," Castiel’s usually collected tone trembles. He looks so good with his hair sticking up and out with a dazed expression that Sam crushes him close, kisses Castiel until they can’t breathe properly because damn, _damn_ \- He could get used to seeing Castiel shattered by the force of his own pleasure, to be allowed to see Castiel so human, so ruined. And when they break apart for a second of air, those deep, blue eyes, pull him in for a gentle, languid press of lips... 

"Keep it," he exhales into Castiel’s mouth, "Whatever you want, just keep it."

…Sam comes to the conclusion that he could, probably, _definitely_ get used to Castiel indefinitely stealing his clothes.


End file.
